


You (In Your Head)

by barush



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: Domestic Violence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-10
Updated: 2012-03-10
Packaged: 2017-11-01 18:18:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/359810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barush/pseuds/barush
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you weren't able to remember him there possibly couldn't have been any boyfriend, right? The fact that you actually killed him was just a tiny dark spot on your theory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You (In Your Head)

‘If your aura sends the right signals,’ he says. Or some other similar bullshit, you don’t understand a word anyways. Your eyes are focused on the swinging object moving in front of your face. ‘Amulet,’ the man sitting before you has called it, but it could have been a fried potato for all you care, just if it makes you fall asleep. Or better, if it sends you into a trance.

The yawn that you’ve been trying to suppress without any success escapes your lips nonetheless and you smile apologetically at the therapist. You’re bored out of your mind, yet no signs of sleep, no scratch that, trance, are surfacing. You follow the metal object with your eyes and wonder what would happen if it knocked your teeth out. Any excuse to end this is good enough. You’re not gonna see him anyways, you think. And somewhere in the back of your mind you’re starting to come to terms with that fact and accept it.

It all began when you woke up in a hospital bed, a terrible pain throbbing in your right shoulder, Mike’s wide terrified eyes staring at you. Before you managed to just take a breath and think of what to say, he enclosed you in a hug so fierce you almost felt your bones crack and started to babble uncontrollably.

“The police, Chaz, they’re waiting outside. But they know it was self-defense! Don’t worry, they know! And we do as well…”

You didn’t hear the rest of what your distressed friend had to say for you were desperately trying to remember what had happened. Your mind was blank though. Nothing. The last thing you consciously remembered was driving your black Chrysler and singing along to some cheesy song. Then, just huge engulfing void.

From your awakening in the hospital, things started to spin downhill. Police investigation, black ink staining your fingertips, necessary questioning. You weren’t of much help though. Post-traumatic stress disorder, the psychiatrist on call said. It was normal after such stressful situations, no need to worry; you’d surely remember soon. Only, you didn’t particularly want to.

Apparently, you had killed your boyfriend. Shot him with his own gun, no less. Indeed, as Mike had said, it was classified as self-defense and you were let go with a pat on your shoulder and dirty hands. Luckily, there was an eye witness as the ‘incident’ had happened in your backyard and your elderly neighbour had seen it all.

Nobody really wondered either. They all knew about the continuous physical and psychical abuse he had been putting you through for God knows how long and some of your friends were even brave enough to say he had got what he had deserved.

First night after they let you out of the hospital, Mike insisted on staying with you. Seeing as you had no strength to politely refuse his demand, you silently accepted and headed home.

Mike was spread out on your couch, softly snoring, leaving no space for you to sit. At that particular time, you had no intentions of waking him up though. Sure, you loved Mike dearly, but he was slowly starting to turn into a mother hen, much to your great dismay. Instead, you decided to take a shower and attempt to wash away all the dirt you’d been put through during the past few days. Going through the hall, you deliberately bowed your head down so you didn’t have to look at all the pictures hanging on the walls.

In the bathroom, everything was in pairs. Two toothbrushes, two different kinds of cologne, two towels. Hell, even two shampoos. Dirty grey boxers with little red hearts on them were lying lifelessly in the corner. You knew for sure you’d never wear anything like this, let alone let it lie around. The silent tears streaming down your face made you look even sicker and paler than you already were but you didn’t bother to wipe them away. They’d be instantly replaced by a fresh batch of new ones and besides, you had a feeling that in upcoming days you’d get used to a sudden bursting into tears.

The naked man staring back at you from the mirror was a complete stranger to your eyes. Ignoring the obviously new injuries, his body was full of cuts, old bruises and burns. He was far too skinny for his own good and there were no traces of any hair on his skin. He looked more than naked. You felt pity for him. Who could have done such damage to a human body? When you turned and stepped into a shower, it was probably better you weren't able to see the stranger’s back. The nasty writing curved into his skin.

As warm water poured down your humiliated body you started to hit your head against the white tiles. First just lightly, then it turned into wild banging as the thought of knocking yourself out gave you a chance to escape reality. No such luck though.

His name was Brad, you’d learnt. Brad Delson, a well-known, recognized lawyer. His company and clients were all shocked at his sudden and tragic departure. They couldn’t believe the dark secret either. Abusing his boyfriend? Oh, come on.

Throughout the upcoming weeks, you did a great job of shutting everyone out and ignoring all the articles showing up in the press. You found new friends too. Jack Daniels, Jim Bim, Johnnie Walker. At the end of the week you’d just gather enough strength to take out the trash, consisting mainly of empty bottles and pizza boxes. Simply, you refused to acknowledge what had happened. If you weren’t able to remember him, there possibly couldn’t have been any boyfriend, right? Not that you’d make any effort though. The fact that you actually killed him was just a tiny dark spot on your theory.

Successfully, you managed to waste away for quite some time before Mike, your only remaining friend, took matters into his hands with such determination you were a little scared.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll set you straight,’ he said with a sad, yet reassuring smile and registered you at anonymous alcoholics. The therapist was his idea as well. ‘You need to remember, Chester. Come to terms with it.’

And so that happened that now you’re sitting in a fluffy bright green armchair, a small metal object swinging in front of your eyes. This man is the tenth, tenth, therapist you’ve already been to. Hypnosis, tests, shock therapy, nothing made you remember. Not even the few photographs you forced yourself to look at. This, you’ve told yourself, is the last attempt. If the swinging what-the-fuck-ever doesn’t work, that’s it.

As it turns out, the aura isn’t convenient today. So you leave the therapist’s office, five hundred bucks shorter and decided to start a new life. A completely new existence where past doesn’t mean anything. You’ve tried to come to terms with your tragedy, you’ve even tried to grieve, but it’s kind of hard to mourn for somebody you have never known. Somebody that was erased from your memory by the cruelty of fate. You’re determined to finally forgive yourself and forget. As easy as that.

With a deep sigh, you open the door of your house and head straight for the kitchen to have a glass of water. It’s cold against your lips, your dry throat becoming moist again at last. It’s been a difficult day, yet you’re happy that this whole ordeal is done and over with.

Slowly, you move along the hall, all pictures gone now, towards your backyard. You haven’t been there since that happened but now you feel it’s time to finally face your demons.

As soon as you open the door freezing breeze hits your face and a chill runs down your spine. Carefully, you step out onto the porch. The sight you’re met with makes the glass tumble down from your hand and shatter into million pieces.

There is somebody standing in the middle of the lawn. Slowly, he turns around so now you are face to face with the man. The fear bubbling inside of you allows your lips to open just enough so you can quietly squeak out, ‘Brad?’

And he just smiles at you.


End file.
